


The Life of Jean Prouvaire

by angelwitheaglewings (orphan_account)



Series: Let the Poets Cry Themselves to Sleep [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/angelwitheaglewings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’ve been exploring the complexity of Jehan a lot in my writing recently. I love fluffy, happy Jehan as much as the next person (okay I love it a lot, it’s one of my favourite things), but I feel like there are so many dark, mysterious, and complex layers to this character and they’re often overlooked. Sad Jehan upsets me, but it’s also fascinating and wonderful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life of Jean Prouvaire

He hates the dull ache in his chest and the tears that blur his vision and the sobs that make his body shake. He sits on his bedroom floor, usually in the dark, but sometimes he will light a candle, finding comfort in the small flame. The darkness lets him lose himself, it allows him to forget all of the things he hates and loves about himself. If he can control his hands, he will write, not caring that his tears smudge the words and make his tidy cursive a little less perfect. 

On the good nights, he will sleep for a few hours. Others, he will still be awake to greet the sun as it brings light to his world. He tries to find the words to describe the world that lies outside his window. Sometimes he succeeds, but often he is rendered speechless at the stillness that comes with the dawn of a new day. 

\---  
Each day he skips into the café where his friends meet after classes. He greets them with hugs and kisses, sometimes the occasional flower and original poem. The chair by the window is where he sets himself up, surrounded by books on poetry, law, history, language, theology, and any other topic that interests him that day; the daily newspaper; notebooks and loose sheets on which he scribbles and doodles; mugs filled with either tea or coffee- it depends on his mood; drawings of himself, courtesy of Grantaire; and a plate of muffins, lovingly made by Courfeyrac. 

Jehan gazes out the window while his friends discuss current events and upcoming actions; he takes in the words they say while imagining the lives of those who walk past on the street. He speaks with conviction when he has something to say, his soft voice filled with a hint of fierceness that commands the respect of those listening.

More often than not, once the meetings wind down, he falls asleep in the armchair. Courfeyrac wakes him with a kiss to the forehead and he opens his eyes to find his things packed up and the dishes cleared away. Sometimes Courfeyrac will let Jehan climb onto his back, and he will carry the poet home and tuck him into bed.

\---

The nights are better when Courfeyrac is there. He can bury his face in his chest, listening to the steady pounding of his heart and the sound of his lungs filling up with air. He doesn’t feel so alone, and sleeps soundly.

He wakes up when the man beside him begins to stir. Courfeyrac’s smile is the greatest thing to wake up to, and Jehan whispers words of love into his ear and kisses his face and neck. Courfeyrac will get out of bed and make breakfast and tea before kissing him and leaving for the day. 

\---

He smiles, he listens to his friends, and his heart swells with love as he looks at them. Days when laughter makes him shake fill him with wonder, and he writes about them; little sonnets that he leaves on tables for strangers to find, longer verses for friends, and silly, free-hand love poems that he reads to Courfeyrac when the dark haired man is taking a break from serving customers. He lives for those days.

But even still, his best work always comes at night, when words crowd tear-stained pages, leaving him numb and exhausted.

He hates the pain, but would feel so very lost without it.


End file.
